The Salt Wound Routine
by spacemonkey69
Summary: Chandler and Rachel get caught up in a bank robbery that isn't quite what it seems. Chapter Three up, Set Season Four. Please read and review!
1. Prologue

Hi everyone...it's been a while! I chose to write a Friends fic for NaNoWriMo (google it) this year, and well, this is it. It's still not complete, but the first few chapters (and last few, the middle got shunned) are done, so here we are!! Name comes from the Thirteen Senses song of the same name. Uber pretty song. But anyway, here's the prologue and Chapter One will be more relevant and up very soon. LOVE TO ALL!

I do not own Friends/Actors/Characters etc, but I do own a busy work schedule which prevents me from writing. Oy!

* * *

- New York, New York.

There's just something about The Big Apple that makes me want to run down the street, arms held out wide as I danced and spun and twirled at my own whim, singing as off key as I cared to because it's my life, no one else's. I can sing badly if I wanted to. Really, I can sing badly only because I can't sing at all, so there's no choice in the matter.

But I didn't run, dance, spin and twirl, and _really _did not sing, because my daddy always told me, in more offensive words then I deemed necessary, that being a fairy was a way to compromise my manhood.

He'd loved Ol' Blue Eyes though, so maybe his approval would have come with a grimace and a whittling chain and a sly glint in his eyes as Sinatra show tuned his way into my daddy's mind.

I bought a gun the other week, AR-15, and its lightweight enough for any poor schmuck to use. I like to hold it, feel it in my hands and it feels right, like my Mom should have planted one in my crib next to my rattle and Mr Snuggles.

I'll be wearing all black, like in the movies. Black pants, black undershirt and over shirt, with black shined shoes sure enough to get dirty. My watch is silver, but that's more of an accessory and I'm not entirely sure it will count in the whole scheme of things. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to wear a ski mask, it seems tacky. Although if I change my mind, there's probably any number of stores that I can pick one up from. It is, after all, New York.

As I'm writing this, it is currently eight fifty four am. It's Monday, and it's my birthday. I'm a Taurus, and I've always wanted to pick up the courage to put an ad in the personals. Not sure what star sign I'm compatible with, but a year ago I would have taken anyone. Now, I guess it doesn't matter. But I'm still going to end up in the papers, some not so witty nickname like 'The Birthday Boy' scribed in bold letters, and one day there might just be a movie made about me. After all, this is America.

And this is New York. So I'm going to go and start spreading the news.

- Alec


	2. Chapter 1

Hi ya'all! Thanks for the reviews, everyone. On to chapter one. So, I must tell you, this story is rough around the edges, and is stupidly long and slow. NaNo involves trying to get to the word length of 50,000 without worrying about the actual quality or awesomeness, so ...well, you'll see. And this story is gen. No romance. Well...No. No romance. So please enjoy?!

I do not own Friends/Actors/Characters, etc, but I am quite drunk.

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There was a Baywatch marathon on right at that very moment, precious seconds of slow motion Yasmine running, and somehow Chandler was _not _in front of the television watching it. Somehow, by some unseen force, he was smack dab in the middle of a busy street, designer clad women to the left of him, hobos to the right, and here he was stuck in the middle with Rachel.

Stealers Wheel should rewrite their song to accommodate his bitter twist of fate, even if the clowns and jokers thing was still pretty appropriate. The designer clad women were smothered in make up – definite clowns – and the hobos?

"So, I hear you're an international spy now," one Hobo said to another as they walked past, and that was right up there with 'A blind man walks into a bar'. Yep. Clowns and Jokers alright, people. Chandler felt strangely vindicated. He just hoped that, a few years down the track, there wasn't a spy novel and accompanying movie featuring a down trodden James Bond asking unsuspecting passer-by's for food stamps and a romp in the sack. They'd have to recast, he was pretty sure Pierce Brosnan would never pass for a hobo.

"Did that homeless man just ask the other homeless man if he was an international spy?" Rachel asked a few moments later, when she obviously felt the men were out of ear shot. And leave it to Rachel to be PC.

"You know, Rach, I'd like to say that's the weirdest thing I've heard today, but we both know that's not true."

"Huh." Rachel glanced behind her, checking out the hobos and Chandler didn't look back for fear that he'd find them examining each other's high tech watches that MI6 had provided them with. That would have been too terrifying, even for him – especially for him – and Rachel seemed to agree. She looped her arm with his, leaned in close and said, "Okay, that is not right."

"And you've lived in New York for _how _many years now?"

Rachel slapped his arm with her free hand and gave him an amused little glare. "Who was the one shrieking over the noise in the sewers last week?"

"Alligators eat people!"

"There's no such thing as alligators in the sewer, Chandler."

"Right. Just like there's no such thing as wannabe Bond hobos." Chandler offered a roll of the eyes, and clearly it wasn't enough to perturb Rachel. She just laughed, light as to not arouse suspicion from anyone. Those anyone likely being the hobos. Yeah, she was _real_PC.

So, it was possible that both Pamela and Yasmine were running now. In slow motion. And he'd been reduced to escorting Rachel to the bank and then to Bloomingdales, and then to the movies, and perhaps to dinner because, apparently it was his right as a friend. Chandler would have taken the movie and dinner offer, and probably the bank offer as well, because lets face it, you can't get far with out George Washington watching your back. But the shopping thing was just not something he should be doing. No, that was where he should have been home, watching Yasmine run. In slow motion.

But somehow, like all women do, Rachel had used her freaky girl mind powers and convinced him. Chandler still wasn't sure how that power worked, but it incorporated a pout, some eyelash fluttering and a lot of ' Pleassssssssssse Chandler, pleassssssseeee!'

Okay, Chandler was a gimp. But there was no way anyone could say no to that. Not if they were male, anyway.

Except Joey and Ross. Because Joey had an audition. Apparently. And Ross and Rachel shopping together was ill-advised since the big break-up.

God only knew why Phoebe and Monica couldn't go with her. But they couldn't, and Chandler was back to imagining Rachel's pout and hearing the whining, and great. He could see it now – he'd just become Rachel's best gal pal. It was possible they were going to get manicures and see Meg Ryan movies.

You win again, Universe, you always do.

He supposed Rachel wasn't all that bad company. She laughed at his jokes, in a different way to how Joey laughed at them – manly, and sometimes with the slight hint of 'dude, I don't geddit' – because Rachel generally always got it. Like Monica and Ross got it too. Except they didn't laugh as much as Rachel. And Phoebe?

Well, who knows with Phoebe. But all Chandler knew was that the week before, Rachel had laughed at his ill timed Yom Kippur joke, and that made everything alright in his book. Even if he was going to hell, and the joke had probably been in bad taste. Or something. Monica had kind of lost him halfway through the chastising when she'd launched into the dirty sink motif.

Besides, Rachel sure did smell a lot better than Joey. Vanilla-y. And then there was that whole possibility of Rachel buying him ice cream at the end of the day. And nabbing free shirts, even if she doth protest too much in that regard. But whatever, because he was in the situation anyway, wasn't getting out, and with any luck Joey would have hit record on the VCR before going . . . wherever, and the slow motion running would _not _be lost until the next marathon two weeks later.

"Okay, Chandler?" Rachel detangled herself from his arm and flipped her hair over one shoulder. "Now tell me, and be truthful," she pointed into the window of a shop that looked too expensive for Julia Roberts, "These boots? Are they fantastic, or are they bad for my calves?"

Chandler was pretty sure he knew the answer, and it involved him grabbing her by the hand and running far, _far _away from the money trap and buying the boots poor man version from Walmart. That way, he didn't have to watch her belittle her money away on something that might just feed on her soles, or answer questions that obviously didn't have an answer Rachel would find satisfactory.

"Uh. Well, they sure are boots, Rach," he offered, awkward little laugh tacked on at the end there.

Rachel just looked at him, seemingly unimpressed. "Yes, well. Thank you for that Chandler, I was totally lost."

"You're the fashion mogul, I don't know! All I see is a bit of dead cow that spent way too much time in the sun and then was twisted into an alarmingly expensive piece of footwear that possibly will give you fantastic posture-"

"See? Right there, fantastic posture! I could use some of that!"

"Your posture is already fantastic! In fact, and don't tell her I said this," Chandler leaned forward, conspirator-like, and cocked an eyebrow in Rachel's general direction, "but it beats Mon's posture by a mile."

Rachel laughed. "You know, that's a stupid compliment, but it still makes me ridiculously proud. So seriously, good boots? Or bad for calves boots?"

There really was no way out of this one. He was going to have to put his foot down. It was either that, or the Walmart idea, and Rachel just didn't seem like the type to buy shoes from there. Or, you know, stuff in general. "I'm _pretty _sure those boots are the death bringers. You know, calf wise. Yeah, your calves would be dead within the hour."

"But they'd look great for the first fifty nine minutes, right?" Rachel offered a false smile, pleading as it was, and then crumpled. "Okay, fine, I didn't want the stupid boots anyway. They're worth two months pay check, go with none of the clothes I own, and Joey would just end up stretching them out when he tries them on anyway. God!"

She started off down the street, leaving Chandler in her wake. Still stuck on the whole Joey stretching out the boots part. That was something new, that he may or may not want to explore. Later, though, because Rachel was getting away. He took a few quick steps, broke into a mini sprint and caught up to find her grinning away.

Ah.

"You didn't really want the boots, did you," he stated.

Rachel let out a little laugh. "Are you kidding? They were fringed, Chandler! I'm not one for living in the past." She laughed again. "You should have seen your face though. Trying to think of a way to let me down gently. Monica isn't _nearly _this much fun."

He would have been offended, really. But Mondays generally went like that, with the laughing and the pointing all aimed at him. And really, as long as people weren't accompanying the laughing and pointing with toxic waste, he was pretty happy to go along with it. Besides, those shoes had been _really _ugly.

"You do wonders for my self esteem, Rachel," Chandler said as she once more moved in close. Didn't hook the arms this time, the hobos were clearly out of reach, and it was possible that Rachel had just realized that Chandler? Equalled useless when faced with a crazy attacker. There would be flailing and freaking out, and the two of them would end up clinging to one another shrieking while their would-be attacker looked on in disgust. Perhaps they'd be left alone, and maybe that plan would work. Rachel was on to something with the personal space thing, and Chandler realized he needed to start hitting the gym more.

"Don't worry, honey, I'll buy you a giant bowl of ice cream after, to make up for your day in hell."

Or maybe he just needed ice cream.

The bank sat snug between a shop endorsing what looked like faux Rolexes and the inner workings of a crime syndicate. In other words, it looked typical and almost cliché. Chandler would have approved, had he not been eyeing off the man in the crime syndicate building window, with his faux Rolex bought two doors down and menacing stare. Oh yeah, he was trouble, and Chandler was thinking that in and out of the bank would be the boldest plan. Strike out bold and replace with wussy, because really. Bold would be pulling out a hand gun and screaming _Shine on you crazy diamond! _or something equally ridiculous that the mafia would no doubt take offense to –

_Did that man and/ or woman just refer to me as a diamond?_

_Sure did boss, and a crazy one at that!_

_Then maybe we should take a shining to his face. With a handful of nine irons. Gentlemen . . ._

- all said of course in the voices of Fat Tony and his posse; Chandler was pretty sure one of them was named Legs, but he couldn't remember the rest. A bad Simpsons fan, oh yes he was.

"So are we gonna stand outside all day, or are we gonna go in?" Rachel asked after god knows how long, effectively stealing Chandler from his own death scene and back into the moment.

The bank itself was a simple brick building, looked like the only legitimate place in the whole street, and Chandler too brightly said, "After you, sista!" Which received him a shake of the head and nothing more, but that was to be expected when dealing with a line like _that._

In and out, they entered the squat brick building, and Chandler forced himself not to peer. The man wasn't staring at him, wasn't thinking that his liver would sit well next to a nice Chianti and some fava beans, oh no.

"Okay, honey? You're gripping my arm kind of hard there." Rachel detangled herself none too gently, offered a laugh and another shake of the head and Chandler was an idiot. Plain and simple, idiot because he'd lived in New York a hell of a lot longer then Rach, but if she could be scared of something so New Yorky common as hobos, then he could do the same for the supposed Mafia, because at least Hobos didn't leave you in the river with cement shoes.

But hey, if Joe Mantegna wannabe was the most terrifying thing they faced all day, then he guessed they were doing something right.

"So, how much ice cream are we planning to eat? Oh, and what movie theater? The expensive one or the expensive one?" Rachel asked as she rummaged through her purse.

"That depends. Do you want to see an art film or something with naked chicks?"

Rachel seemed to seriously consider it. "Aren't they the same thing?"

"You haven't lived, Rach."

"I'll tell my diary that," Rachel smiled, then went back to the topic at hand. "And naked chicks; art films have subtitles and even if it is a dark room, there's no way I'm going to wear my glasses."

"Okay, so the expensive one. And popcorn. And twizzlers. Oh, and-"

"Chandler, I'm paying. I'm not paying with my entire pay check," Rachel said drolly and Chandler snapped his mouth shut. Maybe he'd just buy the twizzlers himself. "So, then I'll need a lot out?"

"You know there's an ATM outside, we didn't have to come in." Thank god we did, though, Mafia guy had less chance from here. Chandler didn't voice that opinion.

"Have you not been listening?" Rachel exclaimed, and apparently Chandler hadn't. "The cheque, Chandler? You know, the whole reason why we came here as opposed to just carding everything?"

It really didn't ring a bell, but Chandler was slowly learning women, and he knew it would be best to make a noise of, "ohhh yeah," awkwardly laugh and offer Rachel an innocent grin so that the world would start revolving once more. And it worked; Rachel shook her head, smiled back and turned her attention once again to her purse.

"I know it's in here somewhere, it has to be," she muttered.

Chandler toed around, distractingly saying back, "Yeah?" as he checked out the rest of the bank. Hot chick, guy who Rachel would probably fawn over so by default he would be known as Hot Guy, middle aged woman with too much lipstick and not enough pizzazz to pull the look off, middle aged guy to match her, and the single bank teller who had a ponytail up to here and a sweet demeanour about her.

Hot Guy was checking out Rachel – or Chandler himself, he was just looking appreciative in their general direction – and she was none the wiser, just continuing through the folds of her bag. "Monica took care of it; of course it has to be. She-"

And no doubt, there was going to be some sort of tired acknowledgement of Monica and anal being tied to the hip, but Chandler guessed he'd never find out.

The door chimed open and Chandler noticed enough to realize it was _not_Mafia Guy walking through with his gun raised, letting off a single shot to the roof before bellowing, "This is not a robbery!"


	3. Chapter 2

Goodbye 2007! Hello, time away from Holidays actually do stuff, like post this chap. And, you know, 2008. Love to the 4 people reading this, hope you all had a great one! Kisses!

* * *

Her optimism wore heavy boots and was loud on hardwood floors, Monica liked to remind herself. Optimism, heavy boots, optimistic, you can_do _this.

"Are you seriously going to do this?" Joey asked, and huh. She was pretty sure optimism had just decided screw it and shunned the boots for sock clad feet. Perhaps even took off its bra, that is, if it was a girl. Optimism was sick of dealing with the man, was going to become a free spirit and turn into a pessimist, right in front of her eyes and no, that was not working for her at _all_.

"Joey!" Monica chided, waiting for it, for the whole thing to become right again. Seven little words couldn't ruin an entire night of _yes, sure, I'm gonna do it! _coupled with a night of scrubbing floors and pots and pans and maybe even Rachel's bedroom door. Or bed. With Rachel laying in it, sleepily pointing out, "You missed a spot."

"What?"

"Yes, I'm going to do this, I'm in the cab, aren't I?" It wasn't like she was going to pay the fare – especially not with the way cab fare prices were at the moment, jeez – go downtown to wherever and then turn about and go all the way back – cab fare included once more. Lather, Rinse, Repeat, she could practically hear Phoebe sing, and that was so not helping.

Especially since the cab was currently not moving far at all. Hadn't been doing so for at least five minutes now, and God, she just knew this traffic jam was going to cost her. She might have to pawn off Joey.

"We could take the cab to, I don't know, my audition maybe?" Joey suggested. "You know, the big Broadway play directed by the big director that would really help my career out a bunch?"

"No, we're gonna do my thing." Monica rose an eyebrow at Joey, dared him to voice up, and he slumped back down in his dirty seat.

"I once saw Kevin Costner on Broadway," the cab driver spoke up, heavily accented and smelling like beets. Monica frowned. Of course they had to get in the stereotypical cab. "Well, my friend did. Friend of my friend. Maybe a distant cousin? Saw the guy, and he told two friends . . . and so on . . . and so on. Got back to me, and it's the whole Kevin Kline thing, yes? Six degrees of separation?"

"Kevin Bacon." Monica slumped back in her own seat, wondering why she was having this conversation _now_, especially when she was pretty sure Kevin Costner had never done Broadway.

"I have my hands full of Kevin's right now," the cabbie shrugged and after around twenty seconds, Joey smirked. Monica rolled her eyes, knowing if Chandler and Ross had been here, there would have been a chorus of _that's what she said_, accompanied by manly high fives to prove just how cool they really weren't.

"Mon, I could work with Kevin Costner," Joey practically whined once he'd gotten over his bout of guy amusement.

"Joey, no one wants to work with Kevin Costner." She was going to be patient and reasonable. "I mean, did you _see _Waterworld?"

There was another slump back to the seat. Monica gave Joey a look, sympathetic for all it was worth, because she knew she was being a bit selfish. Just a bit. Really, and she would never voice it, but Joey probably wouldn't have stood a chance at the audition. He would have come home hurt and disappointed and looking for some – Monica shook her head – Joey lovin', and this was much better for the whole optimistic view on life the cab _should _have been omitting at the moment. If certain other people would stop bringing the whole system down.

Okay, optimism wore heavy boots on hardwood floors . . . wait. Was that even a good thing? She'd heard it somewhere, adopted it a quarter of an hour ago as her mantra, but heavy boots? Wasn't that a symbolic way to bring the whole thing down to . . . well, not pessimism, but.

Just – imism?

It was a crap mantra anyway, she had a back up. "Come on Joey," she said, perkily in an attempt to pull him out of his slump. "Maybe we should learn how to Carpe a little Diem!"

Joey just stared. Frowned a little, and then said, "Huh?"

"Carpe Diem? You know, Dead Poets Society? Seize the day?" Monica tried, but Joey still looked a bit lost, and really how could you seize the day when you were stuck in traffic with the smell of beets? "Never mind, it's stupid anyway. Just, I think this will be good for you."

"Cooking class is good for me?"

"Yes! You can broaden your . . . culinary talents. I suppose." Monica peered out the window, watched a couple holding hands stroll straight through the parked traffic. "Are we going to move any time soon?"

"Maybe spending time with me in my car is your way of seizing the day?" Cabbie spoke up and even though Monica couldn't see his face, she could still imagine the suggestive wink that followed. It was clear as day in his voice, that was for sure. She shuddered slightly, hated herself immediately for that. But the guy was a slime ball, in more ways then one.

"Maybe you should just sit there quiet, pal?" Joey snapped, big brother all of a sudden, and Monica was suddenly even more glad she hadn't walked into this alone. Not that she couldn't kick this guy's ass if he started with the hands, but Joey would probably do a much better job.

"I'm just making conversation, friend." Cabbie held up his hands, that much Monica could see, and Joey glowered at him. "Maybe I'll just sit quiet."

"Yeah, maybe."

"So, uh," Monica cleared her throat, felt Joey's hand fall snug against her shoulders, and continued, "I know you can cook, Joe, but with this class you'll be able to cook . . . more. Like, cakes and stuff. Food. That is not spaghetti and eggs."

"Huh." Joey made the non committal noise in the back of his throat, allowed one more look at the now silent cabbie, and then switched the gaze to her. "And you're sure this isn't just your weird, weird way of getting back at your mom?"

"When have I ever been able to get back at my mother, Joey? The woman's like a stone wall!" Monica twisted her mouth into something that resembled a pout or a frown, and Joey just smiled.

"She's kinda hot."

"Joey!"

"Not like Rachel's Mom hot. And nowhere _near _Chandler's Mom hot. But your mom is-"

"I would pay you not to finish that sentence," Monica warned. Joey shrugged and looked past her to check out the traffic, small smile still playing on his lips. Monica waited for a few beats, then timidly asked, "So, when I'm her age . . ."

"Are you kidding? You'll be Chandler's Mom hot, definitely!" Joey offered a smooth smile that probably worked with all the ladies, perhaps even her and Rach and Pheebs at times as well, and it was working a little bit at that moment.

But mostly, they were immune, and Monica just punched him lightly on the shoulder, said, "Oh you," and glanced at her watch. The way things were going, they were going to be late to this cooking class – and why on earth would she think of attending one so far away, anyway? – and if she missed it . . .

Well, she could just go another time. They did run three times a week, and surely she'd be able to fit it in to her busy schedule. Maybe. Unlike today, where pretty much nobody was working. Thank God for random holidays.

But the sooner she attended, the sooner she could show her mother. Who had spat out her chicken mignon and shrilly wondered, "And was this the dish you left out in the sun, Monica?" Or something like that. Monica had tried to forget it had ever happened, like pretty much everything else in her life that involved her mother's criticism, because she _really_ could not afford the therapy bill right now.

It had stuck, though, and coupled with about forty other kicks at her, if she might say so, fantastic cooking, and a cooking class it was.

Sure, it probably didn't make sense, she was an accomplished chef already, her mother's opinion didn't matter and one class wasn't going to change anything. Except it was, because it had to do with the whole optimism thing, or something, and somewhere between the pots and pans and Rachel's bed, she'd firmly decided. And Monica wasn't one to back away from something she decided at crazy o'clock in the morning.

Even if Joey had noticed the crazy in her eyes that morning, but they were both in the cab now with Creepy McDeadEyes, and damnit, they were going to get there.

"I wonder what the hold up is," she muttered, craning her head until it thumped against the cool glass. "Ow."

"Maybe you should roll down the window," Joey suggested helpfully. Monica offered him a tight smile, and he beamed right back at her. "Just a thought I was havin'."

"I wonder what the hold up is," she repeated pointedly, cocking her head ever so slightly as if she was holding out his death warrant and Joey knew the look and sputtered into action. Still got it, she thought.

"Oh, like a . . . police shoot out? Like in the movies. You know, where the bad guy is holding the hot chick hostage and she's just wearing a tight top and shorts. I mean, why else would the bad guy choose her?" Joey frowned. "Wait. Why would he threaten to kill the hot chick and not some ugly guy?"

Monica wondered if getting stuck with Chandler would have been more of a walk in the park. But no, that would only bring more wit and less protecting her from the creepy cabbie, with maybe a barb or two of, "Gee, I don't know Mon, maybe a squirrel hijacked a steamroller so they could ward off Godzilla?"

No, that was more of a Ross thing. Or maybe the two combined. God, she really had to stop hanging out with the guys so much, they were turning into a freaky combo, and Ross should _not _be combined with Chandler. Who would probably just stick with the squirrel thing. Or maybe just the Godzilla thing, or even something new and different that didn't have anything to do with _anything_. It didn't matter anyway, she was stuck with Joey, and she patted him on the leg, humouring him with a sly, "You'd have to ask the producers, Joe."

"Maybe Joe should go see what the hold up is?" Cabbie brought himself back into the conversation, obviously having paid attention enough to learn Joey's name and some not so well disguised tact. "And leave us two waiting."

"Alright, that's it-" Joey started, leaning forward in his seat with a close to closed fist being brought up, and Monica had enough sense to pull him back.

"You know what?" she cut in, took her hand from Joey's shoulder and quickly rifled through her purse. "I think the both of us will go see what the hold up is and you can stay and melt a bit longer, not that you need it." She tossed a handful of bills at him, not even checking to see if it was the right amount because a) she didn't know what the right amount had tallied up to and b) there was no way she'd pay for ten minutes of sitting in the middle of a street. There was an added on c) there, where she didn't really feel the need to pay something that was going to result in maybe four showers once she got home. "Here. Buy yourself a bar of soap."

Monica pulled Joey out the car by hand, found themselves smack bang in the middle of about twenty other cabs and a lonely looking Lexus and thought _great. _

"You should have let me punch that guy, Mon," Joey said as she led him towards the pavement. "Coz I woulda."

"Hey, lady!" Cabbie yelled from his now rolled down window, face as red as the beets he was covered with. "Hey, you're short eight bucks, you bitch!"

"Welcome to New York!" she yelled back, showing him a toothy smile that didn't at all mean pleasantries and yeah. It wasn't the best come back, but it wasn't half bad either, and god he wasn't going to get out and chase them, was he?

She tightened her hold on Joey and pulled him a bit faster, as he pulled back towards the cab, filled with the gusto of a man itchin' for a beatin'. Monica could practically see Joey waiving his fists in the air like a demented Popeye, muttering, "Lemma at him," over and over again and she was pretty sure she needed a Valium.

"Come on, Joey!" She pulled even harder, and Joey rolled his eyes and allowed himself to be dragged. "If it means anything, I'm sure you could have taken him."

"Course I could have!" Joey's voice was tight, proud and still pissed and Monica thought it best to get him far, _far _away from Cabbie before they ended up downtown with a criminal record. Or with Joey in the hospital because like it or not, neither of them had actually seen Cabbie standing, and he looked big enough cramped into that tiny cab, with his ham fists wrapped around the wheel. Yeah, definitely a good idea to get far, _far _away.

Eight bucks was eight bucks, and thankfully a price that Cabbie didn't find important enough to crawl out the car and beat them, just glare menacingly in their general direction - steam almost coming out of his ears. Monica had to stop herself from laughing, even if he did sort of look like a cartoon character, and she bit her lip and turned away.

Cars were backed up for ages from the looks of it, stemming from way up ahead and Monica knew it was none of her business but . . .

She lived in the city, any happenings was her business, damnit! It was her right to go check out something that had forced her to escape from a cab and potentially miss a cooking class that had pretty much zero merit in the scheme of things.

With a tug of Joey's arm, Monica said, "Why don't we go check out the commotion?"

"What about your class thing?"

Monica looked at him, looked around pointedly, and gave him a firm pat to the shoulder. "Somehow I don't think we're going to get there in time, Joe," she said brightly and Joey half smiled half sneered at her.

"Ha ha."

"It's okay," she told him as they walked, passing designer clad women and homeless people, and everyone else in between. "I mean, I didn't_have _to go to the class anyway."

"That's not what you said at seven thirty this morning," Joey muttered. "You know, when you burst in to my bedroom with your scrubbing brush and yelled at me."

Monica smiled fondly. "And somehow, Chandler managed to sleep through all of that."

"He's used to loud noises coming from my bedroom," Joey explained, added a wink that wasn't really necessary – Monica could have figured out the innuendo with just the words, but whatever.

"Of course he is." She swore, she tried to keep the patronising tone out of her voice. And Monica wasn't one to admit failure when she tried something. Or something. God, her brain was getting fried from the guy talk, she needed Rachel, yesterday.

Joey didn't say anything, didn't really respond at all, just kept that tiny grin on his face as they wandered on, occasionally checking out those designer clad women as they passed. Even Monica had to admit, some of them were _smokin'. _But she wasn't exactly going to bring that can of worms up with Joey, because he would just open them repeatedly and insistently, and then broadcast and demand pictures and smile dopily, and just. No.

Besides, the businessmen trekking the same track pretty much left her with the thought of _guh_?

She could pretty much pinpoint the moment that everything went to hell, telling her and everyone who happened to be rushing around that hey, serious happenings here, why don't you come on over and gawk?

Except this was New York, and this was in the norm, probably only the tourists searching for an eyeful. And her and Joey, because . . .

Well, Monica didn't have a good excuse, except a way to escape creepy Cabbie, and yeah, now that she thought about it, that was the best excuse ever. In any case, she was going to use the excuse whenever she could in life, because it just worked.

Joey was from Queens, anyway. Technically, he still was a tourist in these parts, never mind how long he'd been living smack bang inside, but really, she was just distracting herself as they got closer.

Fire truck, singular, and police cars, doubled and possibly tripled - Monica didn't have much of an eye for this sort of thing – and an ambulance made her feel like they'd missed out on the beginning of the drama. And it was probably true, but from the looks of it, the drama would be continuing for a while. She was a sick puppy.

But smack bang, right there in the middle of the intersection was twisted metal that, if she turned her head _just right, _it kinda resembled three cars.

There was the slight possibility that she was exaggerating, but _still. _It really was a mangled mess and she sure as hell ain't seen anything like that except on TV.

"Wow," Joey commented, looking like he was stuck between making wondering if John Mclaine could survive that, and being absolutely horrified. Monica wasn't sure where he landed, probably somewhere in the middle, and she thought best for them to act like they lived in New York and _move _along. It was a complicated mess, and suddenly she wasn't all that interested in watching bodies get pulled from said mess.

"Joey, lets just-" she started to say, and went to pull him along and out of the road.

"Wait!" And if this was Joey's way of saying his John Mclaine theory, if that's what it was, was winning then Monica was going to have to introduce his ass to her foot.

Joey pulled away from her, took a few steps forward and his eyes turned into dinner plates. "Mon?"

Monica sighed, "What, Joey?"

And then she regretted the sigh when Joey said, looking amongst the wreckage with those dinner plates, "Is that Phoebe's cab?"


	4. Chapter 3

Okay, three months later...love to all!

* * *

Ross wasn't exactly sure whether there was a God – he was a strong advocator for the whole evolution thing, what with it being his job and all, and the two didn't exactly play well together.

But either way, he was still white knuckled and praying to anyone who would listen, because driving with Phoebe was worse than driving with Rach. In snow. After they'd broken up.

He hadn't quite tested that theory, didn't much feel like dying an early death, but anything had to be better than –

"Damnit, Pheebs, would you please slow down?" he exclaimed as Phoebe broke maybe five laws in two seconds. Not that he was counting or anything.

Ross had tried the meek approach, then the pleading tone and a few other tricks he kept firmly up his sleeve, but nothing had really _gelled _with Phoebe that, oh, maybe he wanted her to slow down now.

Terrified yelling was his last resort before sobbing into his hands, and he wasn't willing to go there without a real reason, but it seemed to work.

Phoebe braked to a reasonable speed, gave him a look out the corner of her eye and said, "Jeez, Ross, if you wanted me to slow down, you could have just said so. You _know _how I feel about yelling in the car!"

Ross quickly debated with himself and decided that saying nothing would be his best bet. He definitely did not want to mention that he had said something and he _really, _definitely didn't want to point out that Phoebe had ended her sentence with a raised voice. No, pointing out that she'd just broken her own, and only car rule would be absolute suicide. Ross could write a thesis on the ways he was going to avoid taking his own life, when it came to his friends.

"But you know if we're late, I'm going to tell Frank Jr that _Ross _couldn't handle the pressure."

"That's fine, you were going to blame me anyway."

"Well, you're here, it's just easier."

Frank Jr had turned . . .Ross guessed somewhere between sixteen and legal drinking age – Phoebe hadn't been exactly forthcoming on the whole age thing – but anyway, he'd turned older yesterday and Phoebe had shopped with Monica, caught a movie with Joey and played at Central Perk.

She'd remembered when her and Ross had gone shopping for his mom's birthday present, made a scene in the middle of Toys R Us; shopping for Ben was a lot more fun in both their opinions. And she'd picked up a plush Elmo toy before dragging Ross out the store.

That was when Ross found out the meaning of hell. He'd thought that speeding in New York was physically impossible, and he'd tried it when Carol was in labour, but apparently all the traffic seemed to sense Phoebe and knew to get the hell out of her way.

Lucky bastards.

Elmo bounced around in the back seat, and Ross found himself worrying about a toy. Clearly, he was losing it. Whatever _it _was.

But the backseat didn't have any seatbelts, and after the beating it was taking, Elmo was just about to be dealt with another blow when he found out his new owner was _not _a child who would appreciate and play with him.

Or maybe he was. Frank Jr was a bit . . .

"So. Pheebs," Ross started, feeble attempt at brightly, and Phoebe's fingers were gripping white on the steering wheel.

Oh yeah, Ross recognised pissed when he saw it, Monica's hands had looked like that a couple of times whilst reaching for his throat. "Uh. . ."

Yeah, she was pissed at herself. He'd picked a fun ride to be in. But the alternatives were shopping with Rachel or spiteful cooking with Mon. Ross didn't exactly see a happy ending with _any _of those. _Ben might have appreciated the attention._

Ben would have loved the Elmo. Even if he did seem to like Barbies, but Ross refused to open that can of worms.

"What, Ross, what?" Phoebe snapped. The situation had officially entered into uncomfortable territory, and Ross looked out the window longingly. It was Phoebe, he'd talked to Phoebe a bunch of times, he could do it now. It was possible he could do it now.

Yeah, he was going to do it.

And then nothing. Ross toyed with the cuff of his jacket, frowned at a loose thread and felt the inane urge to tell Phoebe about it. _We can't see Frank Jr now, Phoebe! Because I said so! Because he would take one look at my jacket falling apart, and he would _die.

That would work, right? Phoebe would realize, stop the car and let him out and then he could walk home and get attacked right outside the comic book store, or something. It would be totally awesome.

Ross wondered when he had started a subscription to the crazy. He didn't want to linger on that too long, he might end up like Chandler.

"Hey, did you see that new Harrison Ford movie?" he asked suddenly after struggling for what felt like forever. Phoebe remained silent. "Yeah, that sucked."

"I mean, I practically found out I had a brother, and then I go and do this?" Phoebe exclaimed after a few seconds of dead air, caught in the middle of her own little conversation, and Ross jumped. He hadn't been expecting anything at all. "That's more of an Ursula thing to do. Oh my god, what if I've forgotten _her _birthday?" Phoebe considered this for a moment, looking perplexed, then shrugged. "Eh."

Yet another one of those moments where it was best to keep his mouth shut – no need to remind Pheeb's she was a twin, because that might lead to her stunning realization that maybe she'd forgotten her own birthday too, and there just wasn't enough psychiatric help in the world for that one – but Ross could only wait a few moments before catching Phoebe's pursed lips. "Hey. Phoebe, hey. Frank Jr's a cool kid, okay? He'll understand, I know he will."

"But he shouldn't _have _to, Ross!" Phoebe gave him a look, a serious _look _that meant shut up, I'm talking and I'm serious and I will not take any of your crappy excuses while I'm driving and _not_ yelling.

Ross wasn't having any of it. "Phoebe-" A flash, out the corner of his eye, and Ross reacted on instinct. "Pheebs, look out-"

And then that crash turned into something more real, solid and really painful, and Ross was pretty sure he must have blacked out for a moment, because one second they were scraping towards the left, and the next they were motionless.

Jagged and sharp pain made its way up his right arm, fighting with the oncoming numbness that told Ross something wasn't quite right with his body. His head pounded and his temple was wet, dripping into his eye and making the situation blurry once he found the energy to pull open his eyelid. It was okay though, Phoebe was on his left, and he could see through his left eye, even as his vision shorted in and out.

"Phoebe," he grounded out after a couple of tries, and was that his voice? More to the point, had she heard him? Ross tried to lean closer for a better look, was caught up in his seatbelt and settled for opening his eye just a bit wider. Huh. When had that window shattered?

Phoebe's hair had fallen in tangled strands down around the steering wheel, where her head hung loosely, blood dripping from her mouth, nose and ear.

_Ear, that's not good, that's – _

Ross gasped as his chest constricted, painful and enough to make his vision swarm around the edges. His head lolled to the side, unintentional and that terrified Ross nearly as much as Phoebe's non response did.

"Phoebe," he tried again, but his voice was drowned out by another.

"Help me!" the voice screamed, not in the car, but not so far away either; piercing, panicked, and female. Ross watched the blood drip drip from Phoebe's lip, slowly – slow, and splash down onto her brand new pair of jeans. "P-Please, my brother-"

"Phoebe. . ." The blood continued to drip, and Ross watched it splash until he closed his eyes and thought he could still hear it land.


End file.
